


Endure

by littlebreadrolls



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Infidelity, Jealous Hannibal, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal, Under-negotiated Kink, i don't think this is really non-con but i'm tagging it non-con anyway just in case, kind of?, this is just trashy filth tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebreadrolls/pseuds/littlebreadrolls
Summary: "Hannibal examines the obvious signs of sex on his boy, so poorly concealed, and then he smiles, and his smile is like a crack on his face."(Hannibal AU. Will is Hannibal's grumpy kept boy. Hannibal is Hannibal.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did i write this lol
> 
> i'm kind of conflicted as to whether to continue this or whether to just let it be a one shot

It's the second spring they've spent here in this beautiful, simple place. The temperature is balmy and gentle, or scalding and hot. The ocean sprawls away before their elegant home like a mirror, and the breeze stings his lips raw with salt. The days pass mildly away.

It's the kind of place Will might have dreamed about, once.

He sits at the table in the garden with his head rolled back, listening to the water gurgle in the fountain and the insects hovering around the carefully cultivated flowers. His temple throbs. His skin feels scraped raw. Just as the dawn breaks over the horizon, he hears the back door opening behind him, and then the fine hairs on his neck stand on end, but he doesn't turn to look. He never looks, if he can help it.

He knows, anyway, that Hannibal must be stepping into the sunlight now, like a lizard, without blinking. That he is straight and tall. That he is surveying his garden with the easy satisfaction of a man who knows he wholly owns everything that he sees. He must be appreciating the flowers, and the fine view of the sea somewhere yonder; he must be appreciating the shape of Will under the trellis, the downward slope of his back and the mess of his hair. Will keeps himself very still, the way prey might. It's an illusion, of course; they both know that he isn't prey. But it's nice to pretend sometimes.

After Hannibal has stood for a while, and looked as much as he wants, he walks down the three steps in an even pace, winding his way between the tall grasses.

"Good morning," he says. He puts his hand around the back of Will's neck. The muscles there tighten, rigid, but Will doesn't shrug away. 

In the early days of their relocation here, Will wasn't so tolerant. Full of sullen fury and conflicted self-denial, he would hurt Hannibal using any means that he could: first with his bitter rage, his nails, his teeth; then with his cold, disdainful silence. Hannibal punished him for both – in one way or another – and though the punishments were gentle from Hannibal's perspective, Will was nothing if not a quick learner. He became more mellow. His rage leached away from him in increments. Indeed, in the past few weeks, their life together was actually passing quite smoothly.

The recent trend of good behavior only make this sudden rebellion even more outrageous.

Hannibal examines the obvious signs of sex on his boy, so poorly concealed, and then he smiles, and his smile is like a crack on his face.

Even after all this time, Will is a mystery to him.

Will looks at him in anxious little glances that he'd never admit are anxious. He doesn't like Hannibal's smile. "What is it?" Will's breath is stale, like his clothes. Hannibal inhales, scents out each individual thread: poor beer, dried sweat, a cheap cologne that is not Will's. He hums.

"Have you sat out in this garden all night?" he asks. 

"Yeah."

 "You did not come in. You did not get home until very late."

Will's throat clicks. "Y-yeah." He dares to turn his head fully and meet Hannibal's eyes, to get a glimpse of what is inside his mind. What he see alarms him.

He has known since their first days here – no, since the very day that they met, two years ago, in a shitty little bar in New Orleans – that Hannibal admired him, in some peculiar way he never cared to think too deeply about. Hannibal's appreciation, however, was only ever lustful in an aesthetic sense: Will was another thing in his collection, an  _objet d'art_  like a statue or painting, to be touched freely, to be manipulated, to be dressed or undressed or strapped or whipped, but only as a delightful way to assert possession. There was never any real sexual intent in his regard.

But Hannibal is staring now, dark-eyed, at the string of rough purple bruises sucked into the hollow where Will's throat dips soft and alive, and his admiration is almost palpably animal-like, almost _human_ , and he – he is  _aroused_. Will sees the arousal in the dilation of Hannibal's eyes: arousal at the thought of Will being fucked last night, arousal at the thought of teeth pressed sharp against where Will is vulnerable, arousal at the thought of putting his own teeth there instead.

Will quickly turns his head away and looks down, but it's too late. He's pierced through by what he saw. Hannibal shifts his hand on Will's neck slowly, enraptured, until his thumb presses right onto one of the most vivid of the bruises.

"Was he older?" Hannibal asks, voice light with idle curiosity. "Or was he younger?"

There are dark bags under Will's red-rimmed eyes, and his stubble is patchy, but he is strangely boyish still in the early morning, with his long curly hair and his clothes mismatched and his mouth cracked red from being bitten. When he swallows, his throat bobs under Hannibal's palm. Hannibal enjoys looking at him. He can almost empathize with the anonymous young man with the appalling cologne who saw Will at a bar last night, who took a fancy to his boy and brought him home to his house, who put those ugly marks on his neck. Who touched something that was not his.

Hannibal leans close, scents again for the foreign cologne. He will remember it.

"You never told me I couldn't—couldn't have sex," Will says, rather than answering. He barks out one of those harsh, humiliated laughs. "You gave me many rules, but—this was never one of them."

Hannibal smiles again. The corners of his eyes wrinkle. "No, it was not."

It hadn't seemed necessary, before. Will had never shown much in the way of a sex drive. He didn't even masturbate, except on rare occasions (and Hannibal could always smell whether he had or he hadn't, no matter how thoroughly Will scrubbed himself down afterwards with Hannibal's scented soap). Still, it hardly matters that this rule was never explicitly stated. They both know that the most important rule has been broken: that no one else can touch Hannibal's things. He holds Will's throat, and takes him in, and wonders what kind of punishment will have the greatest effect on Will— and give himself the most satisfaction.

Will sees the intent of it in his eyes before he can say anything, his brilliant boy. His mouth falls slightly open, and panic blooms like a wet rag over his face. He bolts.

He _tries_ to bolt. Hannibal is charmed by this as well, by the fact that Will's animal instincts are strong enough for him to attempt such a thing. He catches him easily, of course, in two steps, and drags him down to the ground and holds him there against the wet morning grass while Will struggles, alive with an energy only found in hunted things. He fights until Hannibal has him pinned hard enough that he hurts. Then he stills. He's panting in his exertion, sharp deep breaths, and he says, quietly, "Let me go. Please."

Hannibal curls his hands once more around Will's neck, where the suck-marks are – the affront – and says, pleasantly, "No, I think not."

The air is sweet and delicate, and the sun is rising slowly – it promises to be a beautiful day, as most are here, a day as ripe as a freshly picked peach. Hannibal holds Will's arms twisted in his hands, and is awash once more with the scent of Will's lover; he is excited by this cologne, by the prospect of having someone new to hunt. Everything within him rises strong and alive, like an engine coming to life, and he feels in a mood for something new. He decides that, yes, he will give Will a penalty apropos for his crime: fuck him with the machine he's kept stashed secret in the lacquered box beneath his pristine bed. Tie him down. Wrench orgasms from his boy until he's sobbing and ruined, trying vainly to close his thighs, begging finally for Hannibal to allow him release—

Will gasps, where his face is pressed against the dirt. "Please," he tries again, "I'm sorry," but when that produces no positive effect, he falls silent, and allows Hannibal to pull him up. He is a clever boy, after all. He knows when pleading will yield mercy, and when he will have to simply endure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, and so it continues I guess, lol

Shortly after their relationship (if, indeed, it could be termed anything as mundane as 'a relationship') first began, Hannibal asked Will where he would like for the two of them to live.

"Somewhere by the water," Will responded promptly. 

In this, as in many other things, Hannibal acquiesced. He knew the importance of giving a little when he planned to take a lot – and besides, it was no sacrifice for him to give Will what he wanted, to trade his sleek little apartment in Bad Homburg for a charming, sprawling villa by the Mediterranean. By then, Hannibal had already grown tired of Germany. He'd lived there for three years and that was about as long as he usually spent in any single place. The villa by the Mediterranean would be as good a fresh start as any other – better, in fact, because it would have Will.

Though the villa was technically Hannibal's by inheritance, he'd rarely ever visited it before. He knew his sister Mischa sometimes holidayed there in the summers. During the rest of the year, it stood empty and dark. But the property did have a wonderful garden, and a quaint little town within walking distance – and, most importantly, a beautiful path to the water, just as Will wanted.

The first time Will saw the place, his eyes grew wide.

"This – this is where we're going to live?" His voice was leery – as if he thought Hannibal was playing some sort of trick on him.

"It is. Is it not to your liking?"

"I – no. I mean, yes. I like it. It's – it's nice."

They both knew that Will had never lived anywhere even half as 'nice' before – not in his entire life.

The antique furniture had only recently been uncovered in anticipation of Hannibal's arrival. The windows had been freshly cleaned, and the floorboards dusted. The paintings on the walls stared down at them. Will looked around with his eyebrows knitted, shifting around in his sneakers and tugging at the hem of the new shirt Hannibal had just bought him. His curly hair was smashed flat on one side from the way he'd slept on the airplane. He was only eighteen, and he looked it.

Hannibal told Will to pick up his suitcase and take it inside; Will was nervous enough that he did so at once, without bothering to pick a bitter, meaningless fight over being "ordered around". It was a beat-up little bag filled with only a few books, a wallet, and some shabby clothes that Hannibal hoped Will would never wear again. Hannibal led Will down a series of magnificent halls and through a series of magnificent rooms until they reached a big white door, behind which lay a magnificently furnished bedroom.

"This will be yours, Will," he said.

"Mine?"

"Yes."

"You mean we're not sharing a – " Will's mouth snapped shut.

"My bedroom is just down this hall," Hannibal said, without bothering to hide his faint amusement. "I thought that you would enjoy having a space of your own. But if you would prefer – "

"No! No, this is fine." Will glared down at his feet, sullen with embarrassment.

"Is it?" said Hannibal easily. "Good."

Hannibal put his palm on the back of Will's neck and yanked him close. Will stiffened. His hands were crushed awkwardly between their chests, and his breath was short and hot against the bare skin of Hannibal's neck. For a moment, there was a beat of tense potential – a beat where Will's body was a coil wound up tight beneath Hannibal's hand, ready to spring off into any number of directions. Then the moment passed. Will did not spring off. He didn't exactly relax, either, but he resigned himself to staying still, recognized Hannibal's right to place his hands where he wanted – to place Will where he wanted.

"Lovely boy," Hannibal murmured.

He dropped a dry, chaste little kiss on Will's mouth, and patted him kindly on his indignantly flushing cheek. Then he walked away. He had to check the parlor, to make sure the movers hadn’t damaged the fine varnish on his harp.

–

Will was hardly good-natured, those first few months – not that he had been before. But something about living with Hannibal in the lap of luxury seemed to outrage him.

How dare you, his blazing eyes expressed, when Hannibal offered him oysters and lobster and steaming slabs of red steak. Gifts made him shudder. Kind words made him flinch. He yelled and snipped, and stayed out by the beach all night, and called Hannibal names, and threw things at the floor and at the wall and at Hannibal. He was never angrier than when he was scared, and he was never more scared than when he was treated well. He was suspicious and half-feral – like a curly-haired pup who had been left too long to fend for itself.

For each of Will's infractions, Hannibal punished him. His punishments were businesslike, and, at times, amusingly parental. He took away privileges, or ordered Will into his room; occasionally, he took Will over his lap or switched him with a willowy branch he made Will go pick out himself. But Hannibal did not delight in inflicting pain merely for its own sake. Pain was a tool or a skill like any other: useful and appropriate in some situations, blunt and vulgar in others. At times, it was less cruel a thing than kindness.

And the punishments worked well enough. As the first month slid away into the second, and then into the third, Will's behavior began to mellow. The two of them actually began to live in something resembling domestic tranquility. In the warm mornings, Hannibal would make them both breakfast: earthy sausages that Will pushed away with his fork, thick toast spread with fresh, dewy butter, nutritious steel cut oats. He would encourage Will to read the books he kept on the large oak bookshelves in his study, and to discuss his opinions of them with him on the porch where they sat in the evening, with Will tired and sullen-eyed and Hannibal calm and pleased.

Every night, before bed, Will walked alone by the sea.

For all that he settled, eventually, Will was still never exactly warm to Hannibal – only civil enough to avoid being rude. That was sweet, in its own way. His reserve was another reminder of Hannibal's power, of his achievement: he had brought Will here, and made him his, and he could look at him and touch him and keep him, and make him behave, no matter how much Will begrudged him for it.

–

At first, Will almost never left the villa. Hannibal never pushed him to. It was, eventually, Will's own restlessness that propelled him out the door and down the road to the nearby town, and he came back that evening with a stormy, stubborn look on his face, spoiling for a fight. It was clear that he expected Hannibal to grill him about how he'd spent his day – or even to tell him that he wasn't to go anywhere without Hannibal by his side. Hannibal, of course, did neither thing. It was good for Will to spend time outside, to get to know the area, and Hannibal was secure enough in his possession not to require constant surveillance.

(Hannibal's pleasant greeting and lack of questions seemed to ruin Will's mood, whatever there was of it to be ruined; he went to sulk in his bedroom for the rest of the night.)

–

After that, they did go to town together, sometimes.

Sometimes they went to the market and sometimes they went to a restaurant. Sometimes, Hannibal dressed Will in a tailored suit and took him to the opera. There, Hannibal conversed with charming Italians and well-dressed expats; Will followed behind glumly with a drink in his hand. Will didn't know Italian. He knew enough to understand that Hannibal's new friends thought he was Hannibal's little lover – his kept American boy. Hell, perhaps that's what Will was now. Initially, Will actually summoned up the energy to be offended at this treatment; soon enough, he learned not to care. What did it matter to him what these rich friends of Hannibal's thought of him? It's not as if Will could be offended on principle. On principle, Hannibal owned him.

Hannibal, at least, acted his part well. He offered Will his arm whenever they walked, and he brought Will drinks whenever they went to a party, and he regarded Will with a fond, admiring expression on his face whenever there were people around to see it.

At home, Will had his hobbies, his little activities to keep himself from going mad. He read, a bit. He painted, poorly. He worked on fish hooks. And all the while, Hannibal looked on with all the indulgent approval of a father, with all the cordial amusement of an owner watching his dog playing with a ball. Will felt as if he was slowly being subsumed under that gaze. And so perhaps that's why, one night, when he could no longer stand the grave stillness of that wonderful villa, he went down to a club in town and picked up a boy with blond hair and smitten eyes. It was a rebellion that Will knew he would pay for later. But, during the hours that he spent in the guy's tiny, shitty apartment, on his tiny, stained mattress, getting fucked and bitten, with the boy crying, "Oh, la mia bellezza, la mia cara," in his ear – during those few hours, Will belonged only to himself.

–

Hannibal never asked Will why he did it. Perhaps Hannibal already knew why. Perhaps he didn't. Either way, Hannibal would enjoy it – the knowing or the mystery. Both were sweet in their own ways. Will knew this about Hannibal: that he could enjoy all aspects of life. That there was never any winning against a man like that. And he admired Hannibal for it too. How could he not? There was something marvelous, monstrous, about a man who could always win.

tbc


End file.
